


jamais vu

by MalevolentReverie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Captivity, Complete, Dark, Darkfic, Depressing, Do Not Ask Me To Continue, F/M, Gen, Grooming, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot, POV First Person, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending, not erotic, personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/pseuds/MalevolentReverie
Summary: meh too personal buttbh this isn’t really a Rey/Kylo story so you don’t have to bother reading it—it’s not erotic or Star Wars related, just scribbles





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> meh too personal but
> 
> tbh this isn’t really a Rey/Kylo story so you don’t have to bother reading it—it’s not erotic or Star Wars related, just scribbles

My first job starts at nine dollars and forty-one cents per hour. It’s a full two dollars above minimum wage, which is awesome, and it’s my first job. I’m sixteen and fresh. I take my ID photo with my tiny awkward smile and feel little anxious tremors. An ID photo. Wow.

Sister drives us in. We’re both reeling from three deaths all in a row: grandma one (“I want to die”), childhood dog (liver cancer), grandma two (stroke while she’s in Florida). One, two, three. Bad things always happen in threes, but I have a job now.

My sister has an old Honda CR-V she bought outright with cash. She has our dad’s fiscal responsibility. She shrugs me off and I walk inside the huge hospital alone, heart pounding; I’m so fuckin’ anxious. We’re too young to be nice to each other yet. Mom made her help me get the job so I have some spending money.

I’m on edge. I wander to the cafeteria, which smells like bleach and potatoes, and shuffle to the back. Our boss has me fill out paperwork. The smell gets worse back there, all thick with detergents and food.

 “You’re not eighteen,” boss says, “so you can’t use the knives yet and cut food. We’ll train you on carts first—delivering food to different floors. Then prep, dish washing, and the front.”

It’s terrifying. Everything scares me back then. I smile and nod, wringing my hands and sweating. Everything scares the shit out of me; even the mildest challenge. I figure I’ll die before I’m twenty.

Something’s wrong with me. No one wants to admit it.

—————

The money rolls in after a couple four to seven shifts after school. I love having extra cash and a paycheck. I’m sixteen and too scared to learn how to drive, but I have money. Dating a twenty-one-year-old, too. My parents met him and stuff, and he’s weird, but he has his own apartment, and that’s cool.

No sex. He rubs off on me. Once we tried but he couldn’t get it in.

 “Hey, Rey! Meet Kylo!”

I look up from checking my steel carts in the back. They’re loaded with trays for patients.

Quiet, obedient, I wander to the cook’s station.

He’s there. Him. He’ll ruin my life. I’ll change up how he looks, sometimes: now he’s tall, looming. Black hair under a hairnet, dark eyes, long nose. Sometimes he looks completely different.

Kylo smiles. “Hey. Nice to meet you.” He’s wearing a gold wedding band. “New girl.”

I’m sixteen, he’s thirty-two. I stare and redden and nod. He puffs his cheek, like he’s pleased, and laughs.

—————

Dump boyfriend one, start with boyfriend two. He’s okay, just a couple years older, and he totally loves me. Holds my hand. He has a car, and my other boyfriend didn’t.

He brings me to his bedroom and wants to play a game. I’m desperate so I agree. It’s called ‘purple.’ My boyfriend punches me in my upper arm until a big purple bruise blooms there. He laughs and I laugh, but I kind of want to fucking kill him.

—————

Go to work with the big bruise under my short-sleeved shirt. I try to hide it, but Kylo notices without about ten minutes. He shoves me into the counter in his work station and pushes my sleeve up. I let him because I kind of want someone to care.

He scowls. “What’s this?”

 “A… A game?”

 “Men don’t play games like this.” Kylo pushes higher. “These?”

It’s the keloid scars by my shoulder. I gnaw my lower lip.

 “…Burns,” I lie. “From here.”

 ”Right. Sure.”

He goes back to cooking some pasta. I scramble away and paw down my sleeve to hide my shame. Some people cut, some people cry; for some reason, I figure burning myself with a lighter will fix whatever makes me so upset.

—————

Kylo summons me to his station one night. He takes out a Razr and nods to me, looking around.

 “Gimme your number. Just in case.”

I do without a second guess. He types it in and sends me his, then he’s texting me by the end of the night. Asking how I am. Fuck, I can’t say I’m lonely and setting my skin on fire to make everything else in my fucking head shut the fuck up.

I lie. I say I’m great.

He sends lots of smilies.

—————

Next day of work, he hands me a tiny condiment cup with something thick and white in it. I frown and cock my head. He looks nervous, kinda, but he’s grinning and laughing.

 “Drink it,” Kylo says.

 “What is it?”

He won’t tell me, so I wander to the stock room and gulp down the concoction. It’s thick and tastes disgusting.

The door opens and I look up. Kylo’s there. He shuts the door and leans on it, smiling like a beast. I tremble.

 “Hi,” he says.

Then he crosses through boxes and shit and grabs me and kisses me hard on the mouth. I panic, but he wraps his arms around my waist and we wander into the back of the storage room. Just me and him. Everyone else is too busy to check.

—————

I feel cool for a few weeks. We sneak into the stockroom and make out and once or twice I feel him rub his cock against me. Back then I rationalize. Cock… penis. Natural.

Sister can’t give me a ride home one right. Kylo jumps in,

 “Rey, I’ll take you. Let’s go.”

He takes me. He takes everything.

—————

At first, I’m relieved. My sister isn’t mad, she’s glad she doesn’t have to leave a party, and I don’t bother telling mom and dad. I’ve known this guy for months and know he won’t hurt me. I hop in his Dodge Durango and wonder what I’ll dress as in October.

Kylo shifts. I can’t drive. I marvel at the way his hands move.

 “Wife and I are separated,” he says. “Kids are with her this weekend. We can hang out, if you want.” He glances at me and smiles. “Try something new.”

 “…Okay.”

We drive. I give him my address.

 “No worries,” Kylo lies.

We go the wrong way. I don’t bother moving for my phone, because I don’t know if I should, and he likes me. I love attention. I’m so lonely otherwise, because I’m weird. I cling to my thighs as we pull up to his small house in a quiet suburban neighborhood.

Kylo cuts the engine. He hops out and walks around to help me out. I think he’s cute, so I don’t mind messing around. The trees close together on our way inside.

He slaps my ass. “Come on, honey.”

Two big hands on my shoulders. He steers me through the hall and down a dark space to a door. I huff, nervous.

 “K-Kylo?” I whisper. I’m nervous back then, too scared to say no.

 “Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

I’m not so sure.

We go down to the basement, and I never see much. He guides me along to a bed, then pushes me down, then…

I squirm. I can’t see his face.

 “What—?” I huff.

Kylo doesn’t speak. He crawls on top of me and then I feel warm hardness between my thighs. I pant and squirm, panicking, and he starts pulling at my jeans. They’re too big.

My protests are lost. He peels down my pants and pants, wet and hot, in my ear, and then I can feel his cock against my bare cunt. I scream and thrash, because even if I want him, this is rape, just like the movies and books tell me. I can’t see a fucking thing but I can feel him thrusting between my legs. I want to die.

I scream more. “Stop! STOP!”

 “Little pinch,” Kylo whispers.

It isn’t. He shoves hard. I shriek and kick as hard as I fucking can, I swear, and he bears down his weight. It hurts worse than it did when I tried with boyfriend one; I feel like he’s splitting me open. Kylo grunts and thrusts. I scream. No one hears. My skin splits and breaks and I claw at his broad back and break down into hysteria.

Don’t remember much else. Remember pressure, I think. Muttering. The creak of the old mattress.

He withdraws. I puke over the edge of the mattress and he cleans me up when I’m done.

—————

…His kids run and laugh upstairs.

I’m chained to the wall. It feels like a horror movie, maybe, but I’m so disconnected from my body that I don’t care. I hum and mutter and squirm. I’ve always been sick, but the sickness swells.

Don’t think of much else, just my mom, and dad, and my sister. I convince myself it isn’t a big deal. They’re okay. Then I cry for hours until Kylo comes downstairs and rapes me without any pretense. He feeds me semen sometimes in a cup. I gag it back.

I wanna die. I think this is when it goes from depression to the worse stuff: the voices and fear and paranoia. It’s always been in my blood, festering and waiting for a trigger. Now it blooms like a poisonous flower and envelops my mind and I’ll never be right.

—————

Kylo comes down one day. He’s nice, then rapes me gently from behind. This is my first time. He’s my first. Rape was my first experience with sex, and I’ve always had a _thing_ , and I’m terrified that it won’t ever go away. Who am I?

He slaps his hips. “Can’t kill you… people looking.” He arches, clinging to my hips, driving deeper. “If you tell, I will. Be good.”

I let him cum inside me and pretend to like it.

Kylo washes out of my cunt and crotch, scrubbing me down before he dresses me in new clothes. He sets me loose in the park near my house, near December, ground cracking with ice.

I sit on a swing. I stare at the sky. I came here with a friend last year, hopped the fence, walked back to the falls. We stared at the cascading water. They patched the fence.

Kylo strokes my jaw. “I love you.”

 “…I know.”

—————

The orgasms humiliate me the most. Mom says I was with my boyfriend, I don’t care. I’m horrified that she’ll know what happened to me. I already want to die. I don’t know where to go.

Try to take control of my body: fuck guys, like it helps, even though the abyss yawns wider. Some days I smell Pinesol and want to throw myself off the nearest bridge. Some days I smell Pinesol and want to get off on the nearest man.

Get paranoid—get sicker—get help. Boyfriend two likes rolling on top of me in the middle of the night and sticking his dick in me. I ignore it, then I don’t, then I smash his PlayStation and shred his mattress and cover his bedroom in sugar and flour. Weird revenge.

He says I’m a psycho, but I know he’s fucking my friend. I smash more of his shit.

…Drugs start.

Legal drugs; the kind that make your mind sleep. I’m alone for a while; digesting, processing, then I’m not. Gain weight. I don’t feel much, just mild happiness; the kind you feel when you eat.

Kylo finds me sometimes. Asks how I’m doing. It’s the stuff you have to shrug off, because if you let it sink in your skin you’ll fucking die. There’s duality to people; a weird dichotomy of good and evil. Someone completely evil can have wonderful kids; someone completely good can have horrible kids.

I don’t know. I think I’m too weak to protect myself the right way, but I have other people who can, and I think that’s all that matters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not in the mood to write smut so i’m gonna wallow

It’s like floating up and up and out sometimes. No ceiling, no atmosphere; you just rise until your body is in some other reality and no one can pull you back down. The Geodon or Abilify or Risperdal or whatever I’m on this week makes a roof. Cages me in. Not a good feeling.

Hurts, maybe. Sometimes I miss that sensation of being ‘different’ and not quite fitting in the way I should. For a while I’m convinced I’m an alien, in a simulation, watching someone else walking around in my skin. I slip right the fuck out of it. Osmosis through a semi-permeable—

Can’t explain it, I guess. 

I self-reflect until I’m staring into whatever paws around in my brain and it stares back. ‘Gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back into you.’ It’s not that fun trippy stuff. It’s an empty thing like rattling around coins in a tin can until the clanging makes your head hurt. But I can’t stop staring at it.

—————

I don’t remember if I screamed the first time. 

It keeps me up some nights trying to bypass the filter my brain puts over the whole thing. It takes a lot of years to comprehend that it doesn’t matter if I fought back. I didn’t when I woke up to Two raping me in my sleep, or when I was plainly told by my Friend that we had sex twice when I was blackout drunk (‘you didn’t say no’).

I’d like to think I screamed, but I think I was too shy and nervous to do that. Painfully shy. Maybe mumbled. Maybe. Breathed hard, eyes bugged, staring at the ceiling over his shoulder. 

The basement was small, filled with miscellaneous shit, like old kid toys and boxes and tools. He had a mattress in the corner with chains bored into the wall—he did it before and I’m sure he’s done it again. 

It’s a weird thing to have in your past, like getting bit by a shark or struck by lightning. Horrible and hard to believe and it sets you apart. Being held captive in a quiet suburban neighborhood, kids running around over your head, then this human, with eyes and ears and a beating heart, tells you he wants to kill you.

Everything else seems small in comparison.

—————

In fiction, everyone wants to make the heroine cheeky and strong. She’ll try to get under the kidnapper’s skin; figure him out. It’s logical. It’s storytelling. Why wouldn’t she try?

My willpower fades after a few hours alone in the basement. I’ve got duct tape on my mouth and the cuffs keep my arms up and back. It hurts. I hurt. I’m on birth control, but it’s not like he knows that, and I assume pretty quickly that I’m not getting out alive.

So I stare death in the face—constantly. I cry until my eyes almost swell shut, then I scream, then I bang my head against the wall behind it. I’m desperate enough to try killing myself. It hurts and makes my eyes blotch with black spots.

He comes downstairs and laughs. “The fuck are you doing?”

I’ve looked death and unfettered evil in the eyes and walked away from both. It didn’t come without a heavy price.

Light flicks on, weak, dusty. I think he’s a sadist. I feel bad for his kids. Sometimes they try the basement door before running off to play. He shouts at them a lot and he always smells like weed.

He’s not ugly on the outside. He even has a six pack. My doctor says it’s normal to notice things like that—to cling to them. I feel like it’d be easier if he was some disgusting, hideous beast to fit the face to the evil thing lurking inside. Skin suit.

We don’t talk much. He lets me off the wall and lets me use the old bathroom in the corner. Watches with his arms crossed. Brings me back to the mattress and pushes me down then just lays on top of me, between my thighs. I’m terrified. I cry after a couple minutes. He’s heavy and warm and I can’t escape.

 “Bet no one’s looking for you,” he whispers.

He likes telling me that. It’s demoralizing, thinking I’m going to die alone in his basement with freedom so many feet away.

I don’t try to figure him out. I don’t plan some great escape. I think about my mom while he licks the tears off my face, even though I’m going to go home and resent the fuck out of her for many years to come. I’ll resent everyone, but I’ll hate myself.

—————

No atmosphere. I’m up and up and out.

I stew a lot. First I think I don’t feel anything, then I realize it’s vortex of satisfying rage that’s burning me alive from the inside out. But being angry is safe and strong; stronger than being happy or depressed. Anger is an easy emotion. It comes naturally.

I’m allowed to be pissed off, too—no one’s surprised I have a chip on my shoulder. My life is a fucking tragedy.

But it’s too personal to share with a shrink; too horrific to share with a friend. It goes beyond ‘this happened, how do I work through it,’ or ‘this happened, empathize with me.’ My husband cries and begs me not to tell him; I’d never traumatize my sister with a scrap of it; friends sort of stare blankly; shrink is getting paid to pretend she cares.

 ‘Talk to someone!’ but there’s no one to talk to.

You swallow it up and bury it down in that black part of the soul that you don’t have to touch—but it overflows, because it’s too much to hide; body pukes it out like poison.

And then you have to eat it all over again.

—————

A sort of walking miracle, my skin.


End file.
